Rose was never involved with Danny, not in the romantic sense. What they had was something greater: a cause, a union of conspirators, a sacrament of the just. Plus, if she were honest, they were both under Garrett’s spell. Garrett Freeland was older, edgier, magnetic. Which made it easier for her to feel, after the fact, that they had both been in some way victims of his powers of persuasion. He had a notebook full of targets and information he had gathered. He had grown up in the movement, was a bit of a hero really. He came of age guarding osprey nests with his parents up in Scotland. She didn’t know what happened to him afterwards; she had refrained from looking him up with any of the methods that were now available.

He gave her her first job, which was to steal a security pass. He said in his soft, coaxing voice, ‘You can do that, can’t you, Rose? Good girl. Course you can.’ He had lovely green-flecked eyes. There was nobody like Garrett for making you feel extraordinary.

He was her first true love, even if it was a one-sided love. He spoke like a tutor or a priest, all patience and understanding. She pushed herself on him, if the truth be told. He could probably have done without a nineteen-year-old girlfriend, given the other matters at hand.

They set fire to the boathouse during the summer recess. More than any other university building, the boathouse was vulnerable, unguarded, on the south bank of the river. An easy target. It was early July, warm and damp. The night closed in around them, intimate and cloying, as they made their way to the timber-framed two-storey building. Downstairs were the rowing boats, about two dozen or so. Upstairs were the social rooms, full of old photos and mementoes, but they left those alone. The guys carried a gallon of petrol each in square blue plastic bottles. Rose was let off this duty; Garrett claimed the weight would slow her down. He had the incendiary device, which had a fuse he’d made out of sparklers, the kind you put on birthday cakes, with the sulphurous smell that Rose always rather loved.

He set the device between two boats in the Eights bays. They moved efficiently, quietly, without speaking to each other beyond Garrett’s ‘Okay, let’s go.’ Before they left, he re-padlocked the door and glued the locks, to stop anyone entering and getting in the way before the device ignited.

He didn’t mean – none of them had meant – to stop someone getting out. They had no idea anyone was inside. He must have been upstairs, checking the premises. The porter’s son. The son of Mr Red.